


Love is Worth the Fall

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:18:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca sings for the President</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Worth the Fall

She gets tapped to sing at the Kennedy Center for Christmas. In front of the president and his family and everyone.

You couldn’t be more proud.

Even if you can’t tell anyone yet, you couldn’t be more proud.

~ * ~

The months between the phone call and the performance are busy. And every day you fall a little more in love with her. Watching as she rehearses in your little attic studio, as she flies to New York and back for wardrobe selection, for fittings, for rehearsals.

She’s adorable as she frets, as she marks off the days on the calendar and her fingers tap their nervous rhythms on whatever flat surface they can find–the kitchen table, the dashboard of the car, your back in bed.

She’s your sweet Bex, so determined to present an impenetrable face to the world, but you know. You know better.

You know she doesn’t see what everyone else does. What you see.

You know that when she looks in the mirror she still sees a little girl, so scared of being left alone, left behind. You know she has the hardest time believing that she’s ever someone’s choice, someone’s love.

You’re working on it, on helping her to believe.

You fill in her breaks, her moments, her little collections of doubts, with so much love she squirms to get out from underneath you. You pepper her face and her limbs with kisses, and promise her–“I love you, I love you, I love you”–until she’s laughing and giggling and saying it back.

“I love you, you big oaf, now get off.”

One day, you hope, she’ll believe.

Until then, you’ll believe for her.

~ * ~

The night of the performance, she’s all nerves.

One of the back-up dancers sneaks you into her dressing room, and from the moment she steps into the room, robe loose over her shoulders and hair falling in gentle, beautiful locks over her shoulders, you can see how tight she’s wound.

But you’re an expert in unwinding her, in helping her remember to breathe again.

“Hey, champ,” you whisper with a smile, holding out the little bouquet of flowers you’d picked up on the way. Red roses, of course, the kind that make her scrunch up her nose in disdain.

And there it is, the face.

“Really,” she asks drily, “red roses?”

But still, she takes a step to you, and another, the robe hanging dangerously off one of her shoulders, and you can see that pale, sweet skin underneath.

“Well, if you don’t like your flowers,” you tease, “I did bring something else.”

And you wait until she’s standing in the space between your legs, until she’s leaning into you just enough that you can place a small, tender kiss on her lips.

She smiles against your kiss, and you can feel some of that anxiety slip away.

“What’d you bring me,” she whispers against your skin, and laughs she she sees the bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne that you pull out of your bag.

“For after,” you whisper. “You and me and the third fanciest room at the Four Seasons.”

And there’s the sparkle in her eyes, there’s your brave, devil-may-care Beca. There’s the fire back in her eyes.

“Third fanciest,” she asks with a raised eyebrow and you can’t help it.

You kiss her again. And again. And once more for good measure.

“Gotta have something to look forward to,” you tease back, and then give her hands a supportive squeeze. “Okay, you have to go get your face touched-up and I have to go find my seat. But you’re going to be amazing, Bex, you’re going to knock our socks off.”

You press another kiss to her forehead before you slip out of the room, turning at the door to say one last thing, the promise you always make before you part.

“I love you, Beca Mitchell.”

She rolls her eyes, and she laughs, and she waves you away. But you saw the tiniest hint of a smile, the silent “I love you, too” in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head.

~ * ~

In the hall, an usher leads you to your seat, and you sit there, thinking of her, until the lights go down. And when she steps out on stage, a vision in her champagne dress, the fabric hinting at the beauty you know waits underneath, you reach into your bag for the small, velvety box within.

You were going to do it before, ask her to be yours forever. You were going to slip the ring on her finger and ask her to marry you before she stepped out onto the stage, so that she’d know, always, that you were there with her. That she was never alone.

But when you saw her–even nervous, even shaking, even half-sick with anticipation–you’d known.

You want this moment to be for her. You want this memory to be for her.

There’s time later for the ring. After the curtains have fallen. Later, tonight, in the third fanciest suite the Four Seasons has to offer.

You have all the time in the world to ask her to be yours.

Right now, though, you’re going to watch her show the world just how wonderful she is. 

Right now, though, you’re going to fall in love with her all over again.


End file.
